


the clock

by rossieash



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, English is not my native oops, Gen, Insomnia, M/M, Some fluff too, domestic at the end??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 08:00:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14588565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rossieash/pseuds/rossieash
Summary: Nights are the worst.





	the clock

**Author's Note:**

> okay so i havent slept the whole night wrote a fic in polish translated it to english and feel like im going to die :'D  
> hence various mistakes may and probably do exist

Nights are the worst. Long, dark, lonely and definitely too quiet. So quiet that sometimes, when he is blandly staring at the ceiling covered by grey shadows, he hears the blood running in his veins. He listens to it then, reminding himself of all the mistakes he made during his life, and there is quite a lot of them, asking dozens questions without answers, replaying the same events over and over and so on, till it’s 4 a.m., till the tedious ticking of the clock is digging into each and every atom of his existence. The thoughts and memories cannot be silenced, the clock – on the other hand - can. At one particularly unforturane night, or rather unfortunate early morning, the innocent device is taken off the wall to be smashed onto the cold floor and lets out the last rattle only seconds later.

Anthony Stark is hunched over broken pieces of plastic, with his hands clutched tightly on the slightly too long strays of hair above his neck, in the darkness brightened only by the shine of the other device on his chest. Faint blue light blinds his irritated by fatigue eyes, he wants to get up, leave this place, close the door, run... Why isn’t he running then? He doesn’t exactly know what he’s running away from. He sits on the floor and keeps gazing into darkness, and the darkness looks back at him with its million eyes, keeping him company. At the dawn, right with the growing hum of traffic, come the tears of helplessness.

It lasts longer than the man has the bravery or pride to admit. Even though it’s been months since everything came back to normal, and even longer since the events on Titan, all these things seem so close to him as if they happened hours ago. It still hurts just as much, continually reappearing and scratching the infected wounds open. The morning birds don’t understand, they happily chirp at 4.19 a.m.. Oh, was he jealous of them.

Coffee is good, until he can’t keep ignoring his trembling palms or hide the rarely occuring twitches from the other people living in or visiting Stark Tower. Alcohol is the forbidden fruit, which he doesn’t dare picking up, because he knows that once he starts, he may end up sleeping, but 6 feet under ground. Medication doesn’t work. He feels like he’s falling deeper and with each passing day it’s harder to fill his lungs with air. And those fucking birds behind the window, if they could only shut the _fuck_ up for once. But they are not the problem.

He closes his eyes and takes a shallow breath, trying to calm down his nerves – it doesn’t work. Quiet footsteps on the corridor, 4.32 a.m., shuffling and a sigh. When he finally gathers himself and pushes the door to his cave ajar, he nearly stares in a mirror. During only a fragment of second, he sees the same look on the tired face of Doctor Stephen Strange, almost the same mute suffering and extreme exhaustion, the same lack of hope.

The day starts breaking at 4.37, by then he’s already sitting on a chair by the kitchen table beside the taller man, with his hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee. They don’t need words for a long time, they just are, looking forward, without asking questions. It’s easier this way. Two gloomy figures wandering the dark corridors during ungodly night hours, two lost souls fatigued by the never-ending, or at least it seems so to them, exile, together. It’s easier this way.

„Those birds are singing beautifully,” says Strange on one morning. Or maybe ‘says Stephen’? Tony doesn’t know. Tony only nods, sniffing, and lays his head on the taller man’s shoulder. And buried in the first rays of morning’s sun, he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> comments please?


End file.
